


Ennóna

by Stargazer898



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Mix of book and movie canon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Self-Insert, and some hand waving of canon, because some of Tolkien's writing on elven stuff is super squicky to me, including the silmarillion, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26388892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargazer898/pseuds/Stargazer898
Summary: Every fandom has fics about the fan from our world winding up in the fictional world. From the self insert who finds a way to cross the multiverse, whether by an act of divine intervention or technobabbled pseudoscience is irrelevant, to the reincarnation self insert the hows and whys are as varied as the authors who write them. So I can’t say that I never considered what it would be like if I went on such an adventure. What I can say, is that I never expected to land inmy mother’s fandom.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf & Tauriel, Tauriel (Hobbit Movies) & Thranduil (Tolkien)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	Ennóna

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Oh, Son of A---](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822802) by [StrivingArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist). 



> Basic formating notes, _Englishwillbewrittenlikethis,_ **Kadzhul will be written like this,** and elvish will be written like this with hover-text translations (which apparently comes with an extra underline) whenever possible and a full list of translations in the endnotes. I got the idea from how StrivingArtist (also on AO3) formatted their story “Oh Son of A---” (a great take on the Modern Girl in Middle Earth trope that I recommend everyone check out). I also will include links for where I draw my vocabulary from and explain my thoughts behind any fan additions I make in the endnotes.  
> In loving memory of my mother, nai eleni siluva lín fëa.  
> Born October 1st 1964  
> Died September 11th 2010

In my defense, plenty of fantasy realms have pointy-eared, long-lived, absurdly beautiful, and seemingly wise beyond measure people involved somehow. I was more concerned with obsessively journaling everything about my previous life before I forgot it rather than learning about my new world. I thought it could wait.

So I gained a reputation as an odd child. Not because I was constantly writing or especially intelligent. No, among my new people I was well within the bounds of average on both regards, I was odd for my frustration at being unable to so much as go on a trip on my own when I was already in my 30s. 30. 3. 0. 3 decades. A grown adult by any reckoning in my previous life! And in my new one I couldn’t even begin to explore the woods around my new home! All because my new people were cursed with the misfortune of being literal children until we reached 50 (the end of puberty) to 100 (society recognizes you as an adult)! Because of course we do!

I ended up throwing every tantrum that I had spared my parents in my infancy all at once in my early 30s. Surprised the hell out of everyone. I had made a conscious effort not to be a burden up until that point, but this was the straw that broke me. 30 was more than old enough to go for a quick walk on my own! Irregardless that I physically looked like a 10-year-old. I knew I was more than capable of being careful! Yet my new parents would not yield. They spoke of the dangers of orcs, trolls, and bandits. Trying to impress that the world was far too dangerous for someone who could barely string a bow. So, I pretended to give in. I sulked in obvious frustration. Huffed and let myself be a passive-aggressive brat when my parents tried to interact with me. And all around became nearly intolerable to be around until they started to leave me to my own devices in my room. From there it was simple. I gathered what I needed sporadically and hid them underneath a loose floorboard, my mother’s spare hunting knife, flint from the kitchen, a flask of water, about two weeks worth of Lembas bread, a portable sewing kit that my father got alongside his main kit, a bedroll that used to be an old waterproof cloak meant for a particularly tall adult (it might have belonged to my grandfather) that I sewed around my softest blanket, a new waterproof cloak that I managed to purchase without arousing suspicion, a wood carving knife that I received for my 28th birthday, some spare bowstring, my bow, and a box of my first six journals. The last would be foolish to bring on any long journey, but I figured my first journey should be to find somewhere out of the way that I could retreat to whenever I needed space.

I felt a pang of guilt when my parents worried over my behavior when they thought I was asleep, but if I was ever going to have a chance at making this work I would need the space that being absolutely awful gave me. So I persisted. Snark, silent treatment, snottiness, every tool of a brat was at my disposal as I distanced myself further and further from everyone around me. I was 31 when I finally had the distance needed to sneak away for the first time. My mother was set to go on a weekend hunt while my father needed to spend the day at the market. They were hesitant to leave me to myself, but neither could afford to be distracted by an unconscionable brat either. The freedom of finally being properly alone, no one to hear me if I should scream or sing or to stop me if I tried to do something that they thought particularly foolish, left me cackling. My heart soared. My smile grew. My blood raced. Everything finally felt Right. I barely managed to remember to sneak back on time, and even when I did I nearly gave everything away with the joy I had no way to hold back. I only managed to hold onto any semblance of secrecy by admitting that being left alone for the day made me feel better than I had in well over a year. Not even the great sorrow that statement brought for my parents, and resulting guilt in being so cruel to them, could completely stifle my joy. I couldn’t give up my freedom to please other people. Not after finally getting it back again.

Being the caring parents that they were, they put aside their own hurts and started blocking out time for me to “rejuvenate myself” no matter how strange the need for such solitude in a child seemed to everyone in our settlement. In turn, I did my best to make up for my cruel behaviors by holding onto the knowledge that my next “rejuvenation day” would allow me to sneak away again. By the time I was 33 not only had I managed to build a hidden cache that I filled with my journals, but I had also learned every rise and dip in the woods within a days trek of my home and could shot down a bear through the eye at 300 yards away. I couldn’t be happier with the way my life was going. So of course everything had to go to hell.

I was returning from a successful trip into the woods; my spirits high, my body aching in a way that only good exercise can properly create, and my mind buzzing with ideas on what I could do to surprise my parents for their anniversary. So I was caught off guard when I found everyone in the town freshly dead. I puked. Multiple times. The smell-I don’t know if I can properly describe it. It was more than the blood and piss. More than faint rot of meat that has been left too long in the sun. It almost felt like I could smell the vicious cruelty of those who slayed everyone without a hint of mercy. Like the malice lingered in a tangible way. The air and earth themselves soaking it all in. Uncaring, but not unknowing.

I don’t know exactly how long I stood there. Horrified by what had happened. But it couldn’t have been too long, for the sun had yet to fully set when I began to move again. Everyone would need a pyre. So I walked around collapsed buildings and unmoving bodies, straight to farmer Logon’s shed. Ignoring how his blood seeped into the floor. ~~Thick. Dark. Metallic. Too Much. Almost dried. How~~ Grabbing both his ax and his largest wheelbarrow. The work was miserable and long. The night had well risen and I still only had half the settlement stacked on top of my makeshift pyre when I found my parents. Terror etched upon their faces as they were buried within a too narrow opening. Absurdly I wondered what could possibly send them down into such tiny crevices when the entire settlement was under attack. They never would have fit either of them even if they completely contorted themselves. They would not have fit any adult.

But they would fit a child. Particularly, they would fit a child of my size quite easily. A child they would have realized wasn’t where she was supposed to be in the middle of an orc attack. A child they would have spent their last moments desperately hoping had gotten involved in some manner of mischief and desperately fearing had been taken by orcs to face unspeakable horrors. My parents died in unbearable agony, not knowing the fate of their only child, because I had been too selfish to wait to have a handful of moments of freedom. Because I had actively made their lives miserable in order to create that initial moment. Because even after I started to try to make it up to them I never even considered not continuing to sneak away. Now I would live the rest of my days with the freedom I stole. I would never be able to it up to them. They died. It was all my fault. If they had not been looking for me they might have escaped. If they had not been looking for me they might have made it to their next anniversary. If they had not been looking for me they might have had time to help others. But they didn’t. Because they were looking for me and I was not here.

These thoughts etched themselves into my every breath. Even as I lit the pyre. Even as I left for my refuge. Now a nightmare. I couldn’t stay in the settlement though. Not with death soaked through its every crevice. Instead I hunted. I wandered, but never more than a day's travel away from where my nightmare was. I remembered. And months passed. I never even considered that another might pass by until I found myself staring into piercing blue eyes. The person they belonged to leaning forward so he can get a good look at my face.

“Suilannad, gwinig. Enethen dha Thranduil.” As I felt myself begin to pass out, all I could think of was that his voice was far gentler than he ever showed in the movies.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation Notes:  
> Ennóna=a fan-translation from someone else on the internet that means “born again” in elvish by smashing the word for again en together with the word for born nóna  
> Essë=means “beginning” in Quenya  
> nai eleni siluva lín fëa=should mean “May the stars shine upon your soul” but my grammar may be off since I combined some Sindarin and Quenya to get the right feel.  
> Suilannad, gwinig. Enethen dha Thranduil.=”Greetings, little one. My name is Thranduil.” In Sindarin, though I’m not sure that I’m conjugating “is” right.  
> All of my Elvish and Quenya is coming from <https://www.elfdict.com/>  
> Onto the personal stuff, my mom was a major Lord of the Rings fan. When I first started writing fanfiction, around 2007/2008 if I remember right, I worked up my nerve to ask her about whether she thought it was real writing. She not only reassured me that it was real writing, but confided in me how she admires people who could do it. Ruefully sharing how she had a story about a female elf with a deep bond with Legolas and dark red hair, but no matter how often she rewrote it always came off as a professor writing a particularly dry review. So when The Hobbit trilogy came out in 2012-2014 with their invention of Tauriel I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. She was almost everything my mom described her OC as smart, passionate, strong, close with Legolas, beautiful red hair, sharp eyes, compassionate, and intelligent. If they hadn’t added the Kiliel romance I would have seriously wondered if this was my mom’s OC as she always imagined her. Instead I think of my mother and her deep love of the series whenever Tauriel appears. Which brings me to why I chose to write this story. I have been dealing with a lot in my personal life and wanted to write something that could help me process some of what I’ve been feeling. When I started brainstorming what I might write about that would let me do that, I kept coming back to the idea of putting an OC version of myself in Tauriel’s shoes. Hence this story came to be.


End file.
